The Flooding Dark, The Evening Strange
by herongale
Summary: There is always more than one way home. Edward/Scar, set in pre-war Germany. The entire story is posted at Livejournal, it gets too steamy for this website early on. Please go to my profile for a proper link.
1. Chapter 1

i.

The opposite of a fact is falsehood, but the opposite of one profound truth may very well be another profound truth.

Niels Bohr

There was no such thing as a wound that healed, good as new.

Westphalia on the Rhine was not a safe place for former state alchemists in that desperate time just before the second great war. That which had once been the Holy Roman Empire was now gripped in poverty and the kind of suffering that gave birth to stern ideologies, not unlike Ishibal, or Lior. Edward Elric no longer carried the title Fullmetal, but after having spent over two years studying the sciences of this strange world, now he found himself travelling from Rome to Köln by train, pursuing a different and yet disturbingly familiar goal.

Sighing as he leaned against the sideboard, Edward watched as the countryside of Germany scrolled by. All of that research into the nature of rockets had failed to pan out. No matter where he went or which new theories he pursued, it had become clear that the problem of designing a rocket capable of breaking the bounds of gravity was a puzzle that would take many more years, and far much more manpower, then Edward would be able to command. Critically more important, however, was the fact that the entire pursuit was fundamentally flawed. Even if he could find the power to reach the end of the universe, Alphonse would not be there. He would never be there.

Deep in the theories of physics Edward had discovered an elemental truth. There was not just one universe. There were many, and they were in fact infinite. The gate that bound this world called Earth to his own was not a passage that encompassed distances. No-- the only thing it connected together were possibilities.

That discovery had sent Edward into a lurid depression. He had been in Paris at the time, and in the end he escaped suicide only by the fortunate intervention of his father, who came from Munich specifically to retrieve him, worried because the number of unanswered letters (and later, telegrams) had become too many to bear.

It had been a stern time in his life. Even thinking about it now, Edward shivered. It would be better to be dead then to have to endure such hopelessness ever again. It was his wish that Alphonse never would have to endure anything like it.

It was in Munich, floundering in overwhelming fears and living his life in an uncaring, unseeing haze, that he snapped. And it was then, and only then, that his father had finally confided in Edward, revealing to him the existence of a different path. Alchemy, disguised as magic, had not yet died in this world of technology and physical laws. That was a day when Edward came very close to killing his own father.

It had not been easy for Hohenheim to convince him that the reason for his earlier reluctance had been because it was a dark and dangerous path, not significantly different from the pursuit of the Philosopher's Stone, or Resurrection Alchemy.

The dangers themselves were different, of course, but very real. Alchemy on earth depended on the principle of equivalent exchange, but in this world all alchemy drew its power from the soul of the practitioner. Every act had the potential of obliterating that soul altogether. Edward eventually forgave his father, but he never forgot that the man had allowed him to walk deep in the pathway of despair before giving him this hope.

But, wasn't that always his father's way?

Facing forward to observe the landscape coming, Edward finally saw two black towers rising in the distance, signaling that the city of Köln was close. Edward could not help but find it ironic that his biggest hope now lived in the church. The religions of this world were different from the religions of his own, but in Edward's estimation they carried not a whit more truth. For him, the only value of the church was in its position as repository of arcane learning, as a hoarder of forbidden facts. Edward had spent a great deal of time in Rome, exploring a city more ancient and byzantine then any he had known in his own world, tracking down secrets right under the nose of the formidable Catholic church.

He had not been able to penetrate very deep into the Vatican; it soon became clear that even though the texts he needed were stored wherever the church kept their secret libraries, he would never be able to get to them. Everything was simply too closely guarded, and without power Edward could not take the information by force. He did learn some things, however. Ultimately he discovered a clue which directed him to where he was at this very moment, on a train to Kölner Dom.

Germany was a Protestant country, the ultimate Protestant country. The power of the Catholic church was weak here, and in its most important Cathedral it contained a shrine to three Christian saints: the tombs of Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, the three wise men reputed to have given gifts to the Christ child. Although Edward did not believe a single word of the Christian gospels, he did believe in the clues which taught him that the three gold sarcophagi contained not only the bones of three unknown men, but also the magical texts that he needed.

It was all now just a matter of getting there.

Edward looked down at his left hand, fingers fretting fitfully as his whole body sang with impatience. He had never been able to really get used to his left hand's unnatural dominance. It didn't want the power it had, and became oddly clumsy at times, even now. Personifying his body parts was a habit he'd picked up from Alphonse… watching his brother deal with such an extreme body/soul disconnect had caused him to pick up some sympathetic distance. Edward stroked his metal arm with the dancing fingers, trying to calm his nerves.

Soon the train was passing cottages and then larger buildings, and abruptly the countryside was left behind. Once he arrived Edward would have to find an apartment. His funds were rather limited as he depended almost solely on a pension provided by his father... his confounding, shady father. Where the man got the money, it was impossible to guess, but all Edward knew was that he could reliably expect a wire at the beginning of each month, enough to provide for modest housing, food, and a few additional necessities. Fortunately, his father always seemed to be two steps ahead of the devaluation of the Mark, probably by using certain back-channels of knowledge that were probably quasi-criminal if not outright illegal. Edward never asked.

The Weimar Republic was in trouble. Everyone knew this, even Edward, who had only the most cursory knowledge of Europe's recent history. Although democracy was still technically the ruler of the day, so was poverty, and in this poverty Edward sensed a simmering desperation and blind fear that was sure to break out in some recklessly bad policy. It would be too bad, tragic, if Germany were to fall victim to the sorts of excesses he'd seen back at home, but Edward would not find it surprising. The gaunt faces that stared out at him as his train rolled to halt at the station bore witness to this.

Clutching his slim leather briefcase close, Edward debarked from the train. He no longer wore the rich red cloak he preferred, choosing instead to blend in by wearing drab browns and whites without the slightest element of distinction. In his pocket he held a list of names, people that Hohenheim's contacts deemed to be reliable, and these would be the people he would seek out when looking for a place to stay. Edward was not yet sure how long he'd be in the city. It might be a few days, but most likely it would be several months. In either case he would require a landlord who would charge fair prices, provide adequately tidy accommodations, and ask absolutely no questions.

Before he walked one hundred yards, Edward found himself staring directly at the façade of the cathedral, Kölner Dom.

It was predictably massive, but less predictably, it was stained in soot and looked rather sorry because of it. A past glory, now faded. However, the heavy overdose of filigree (Edward supposed that it qualified as "gothic") made the entire impression awe-inspiring, awesome. Somehow even the soot added to the gravitas.

He had to see it. Because it was so close, Edward had to surveil. It was a struggle to suppress the sneaky pose that his nature almost demanded he adopt. Someone, probably Winry, had once told him that he revealed too much with his face, and ever since then he'd tried to reign that in at critical moments, but it was never easy. Lifting his spine, holding himself tall, Edward sauntered in through the main atrium, his gait only a little bit loping and predatory.

Inside, the cathedral was amazing. Vaults over ten stories high dwarfed everything, an effect Edward approved of because it kind of leveled the playing field, making everyone look diminished. Perhaps a thousand people could be fit in there, maybe more, but at this time Edward spied only a couple dozen, most praying quietly in the pews or kneeling silently in front of the terraced candle racks in the various side chapels. It took him longer then he thought it would to find the shrine to the Wise Men, but when he did he was pleased to see that it was cordoned off with nothing more strong then a velvet rope. In a completely hypocritical display of piety, Edward bent to kneel in the front pew before the shrine.

There would be two main problems in breaking into the tombs, neither trivial. The first was that they existed in a completely open space. Although any stranger could approach quite close, it seemed that there was always a priest or two wandering around, looking generally solicitous but clearly able to raise some kind of alarm if they witnessed any sort of sacrilegious break-in. Edward would have to find out if there was ever a safe time to approach unobserved. The second problem was that the shrine itself was an ornate gold mini-cathedral which was covered over in many intricate carvings. It was not easy to figure out how to break into: perhaps it was an entirely welded piece. If it were that, Edward would have to just give up right then, but in what little he'd been able to figure out about the Catholic church, that really didn't seem to be in its style. That thing contained bones, and even if they were not the bones of the three (probably mythical) kings, they must be real human bones, the kind which can be shown to doubters or auditors of the church.

Edward cracked his knuckles, and then sighed. Figuring out the solution to these problems would be frustrating and time consuming. But the key things he needed to know were simply not the kinds of things he'd find in any old book, and he had accepted that already, a long time ago.

Edward stood up, but instead of leaving he decided to walk around some more. Something in the peaceful stillness appealed to him strongly, and he didn't need to share in the religious faith that the building represented to find it beautiful. In fact, it was a testament to the strength of men, not gods, that such places existed. All throughout Europe he had seen many wonderful things, and his favourites were the massive architectural triumphs of various ages. Edward had read that this cathedral alone had taken over a decade to build. He approved of that kind of devotion. In a way he was living that kind of devotion. Building a stable life where he could live together in peace with his brother… that seemed as worthy a task as any other, although such work would be unlikely to leave behind any meaningful trace.

Edward remembered the dead cicada, from the time of Izumi's test. That, too, had left behind no direct proof of its existence, but in the mere act of dying it nourished many small lives. That dead cicada was a friend, a comrade. It represented who he thought himself to be, what he thought his end would be like, and such a thought gave him a kind of odd comfort.

One of the chapels captured his interest when he saw that it had a statue of the Virgin Mary, the goddess of the Catholic Church. A few people were praying before it, and Edward moved to join them, wanting to sit quietly in the last row and observe it more closely. Whenever he saw depictions of the Virgin he was reminded of his own mother, how she had been before he had attempted to resurrect her dead soul into a false body. It also made him think about Wrath's hands around Izumi's neck, and about Rose caring so tenderly for the child born out of her rape. Not least it reminded him of Gracia, Hughes' wife, and helping her through her labor on the day of his own birth, not long before Nina was transformed into a chimera. Such thoughts were sad, but he was drawn to them, just as he was drawn to look on the serene face of this goddess he did not believe in.

In one of the middle rows, a young girl was holding a rosary, her murmured Hail Marys just faintly audible, while across from her sat an elderly couple, both respectfully upright and attentive, although not appearing particularly prayerful. In front of all of them a large man with short white hair was praying with his head bowed deeply, kneeling in the foremost rows and wearing a severe black woolen cloak. Edward regarded them all and pondered their relationship with the goddess, wondering what it might be like to share their faith. Perhaps it was comforting. He hoped, for their sake, it was.

Edward lingered. The day was still somewhat new, and he had plenty of time to take care of the mundane but necessary prospect of exploring the city. He hated to admit it, but he was homesick. Always, always, he missed Alphonse, but sometimes those feelings swelled and threatened to overwhelm him. There was no question that the very act of living in this world was to be in exile. Perhaps that was part of the price necessary to secure Alphonse a human life of his own, but the fact was that it still galled. If he could even get some glimpse, some assurance that the transmutation had worked, that was all he really needed.

Sometimes he hated himself for being so weak, but not this time. It seemed right to mourn, because mourning was nothing but longing applied in extreme circumstance. Eventually the girl finished her prayers, and when she walked out there was a look of lightness and relief in her face. Edward smiled at her, smiled even though he knew that it made him look more sad, more pitiful, because of that hateful habit of revealing everything with some flicker of muscle twinges that was entirely outside of his control. She smiled back, possessing the enviable clarity of the young as she pitied him.

Soon after the couple followed suit, and Edward noticed that their clothes were very shabby and thin. His immediate impulse was to give them something, anything, but he knew that would be disrespectful to their dignity. He was just too young and young-looking for them to be able to accept such a gesture from him without loosing face in front of their goddess.

Oh, how Edward missed Risenbourg. In a place where everyone knew everyone else, charity was so easy.

Now it was just him and the man in the black coat. Edward dared moving up a few rows, taking a seat in the row just behind the other man so that he could look more closely at the statue. It was so stunningly lovely. Alphonse would surely like to see it, so it was up to him to remember it well so that he could describe it to him. Edward held close many such memories against the time that he hoped he would see his brother again. Not all brothers were as close as he and Al, but Edward didn't much care for whatever stigma or oddness this longing attached to him. His life was too peculiar for his affections to be normal, that's all there was to it.

The other man was saying his own prayers in a quiet but deep undertone, and something about the accent niggled at Edward uncomfortably. Among his various skills, Edward had always been very adept at languages. This used to be useful only in regards to reading and research, but in this world it was a matter of survival. He knew by now several languages… Latin, Spanish, English, and French he possessed all to some rough degree, and he was beginning to piece together a scholar's understanding of Hebrew. German was quite similar to his own language, so in that language he had actual proficiency, but for over a dozen separate tongues he was at least able to sort through the words and determine where the speaker was from, even if he could not always understand content. Whatever the priest was speaking, it was not German nor any Romance language, but something that tugged at Edward's memory irritatingly.

Naturally, this caused Edward's attention to shift from goddess to man. Despite the white hair he did not look old, and his skin was a dark olive color that was certainly not reflective of the prevailing Aryan standard. At first Edward thought he might be a Jew, but that made no sense, because what Jew would pray to a Christian god? He could see very little of the man's profile because of his position, but what he did see impressed him with a feeling of strength. There was a strong neck and rough-cut bones of the hands and face. There was something… something…

Scar. The man reminded him uncannily of Scar. As far as he could tell, this man had no marks on his face, and an involuntary glance at his right wrist was unrevealing of any tattoos. So he couldn't be Scar himself. But the resemblance was striking and hit him like a blow. Memories he forgot he had raged to the surface, an admixture of extreme lonesomeness for home as well as sickening recollection of all the horrible things that he wanted to suppress. What Scar had done had been both unforgivable and completely understandable, and Edward remembered clearly the fact that it had been Scar who had made it possible for Alphonse to survive Kimbly's transmutation, and that his own life was perhaps owed to what had happened in Lior. He still found it very confusing and unsettling, and just thinking about it made his head hurt.

Scar had died, it was undeniable. This was not, could not be, Scar. It could be the man's doppelganger, of course… but that shouldn't give him these kind of shivers… should it?

Edward remembered searching for him in the rubble of Lior and finding Alphonse instead, and when the surprise of that all had passed he had found himself on the run from the military. His initial shock and even sadness over the death of Scar had been something completely suppressed. Like the cicada, Scar had become a comrade of sorts, a reminder of his own frailties and weaknesses. It was true, Scar had done what Edward could not. He created the Philosopher's Stone, and against all odds had found the one way in which doing so was not an utter atrocity but rather a symbol of some arcane justice. Scar had been the kind to believe in a smiting god, and in acting as her agent he did mete out the kind of judgment that perhaps the world's flow demanded.

Shaking only a little, Edward stood up to leave. Distracted at last by Edward's various agitated movements, the man looked back. At first there was only curiosity in that glance, but quickly the man widened his eyes in surprise.

"Edward Elric?"

The face that looked at him had no scar. The eyes that regarded him were not blood-red but brown. And yet. And yet.

"Scar?" Edward's voice was a harsh whisper, and his shaking increased.

"I thought that Ishbala might lead you here," the other man said, using an accent and words that were only vaguely reminiscent of German, settling back in his seat and regarding Edward calmly.

Reeling, Edward stepped backwards involuntarily, flattening his hands and bending his arms up at the elbows. How many times had he fought with this man? First, it was Scar trying to kill Edward, folding Fullmetal into his revenge quest against all State Alchemists. Later it had been Edward who pursued Scar, intent on killing him before he could complete the Philosopher's Stone. Because of Edward's skill and Scar's gift, they had been fairly well matched in battle. However, without alchemy Edward had little chance to defeat Scar now.

Still, he would not run away.

"You don't really want to fight me, do you… Fullmetal Alchemist?"

Edward took a moment to really look at the man in front of him. Despite superficial changes Scar looked no different, but the calm of pose was mirrored in a similar repose of face, which seemed strikingly unlike the Scar of old. Scar leaned back, but only to stretch his arm behind the pew, using it so that he could more comfortably look at Edward without getting up. He looked like a man greeting a neighbor who he hadn't seen in a few weeks, not like a holy fanatic meeting an old rival from who he happened to have been separated… by death and a gate severing universes.

This was insane. What was the proper protocol? Edward suppressed an incredulous bark of laughter, and the tension In his body didn't lessen one bit. How could he be comfortable around what he did not, patently could not, understand?

The man, Scar, waited quite a time before saying anything. His face was almost frighteningly patient.

This, in a nutshell, was exactly why Edward did not believe in god, any god. Had there ever been a coincidence in his life writ more heavily in cruel irony? Edward had been thinking about home, missing it fiercely, wanting his brother back. Almost any reminder of home would have been welcomed with delirious happiness… Almost. If Edward did end up believing in a God, it would be this Ishbala woman, and he would curse her as a trickster god no more faithful then that Norse myth, Loki. Edward had mourned Scar's death, distantly, but hadn't it also been a relief?

Never having to deal with the man again, that was the kind of blessing he could get behind.

"Let's go." Scar stood up finally, never taking his eyes off Edward's face. There was no way to guess what he was reading in the transparent cinema of emotions that Edward was treating him to.

"What?" Edward replied, stupidly. His mind was working at a furious pace, processing the possibilities for how this could be, at the same time that his soul was protesting bitterly the painfulness of having to deal with one remnant of home that he really wanted to forget. It was hard to attend to actual particulars.

"Come," Scar gestured, and when Edward did not move he stepped into Edward's pew and gently palmed the smaller boy's elbow, nudging him to move. "Let's go outside."

Somehow Scar ushered him out of the cathedral, Edward moving numbly a few steps in front of the other man. Other then the one brief moment of contact Scar had made no further attempt to touch him, and walked a few steps behind and to the side… exactly where Edward could see him if he wanted, and ignore him if he didn't.

In front of the cathedral was a large empty plaza. It looked like the kind of place that welcomed visitors, but the very few people walking along it hurried past. Prejudice against Catholics was no longer officially sanctioned, but it didn't do to loudly proclaim any affiliation with the object of Martin Luther's enmity. Blindly Edward wandered towards the river, and silently, Scar followed.

It was not far, but slowly, slowly Edward calmed. No duel seemed imminent. More importantly, he had come up with a sort of theory for how Scar could be here. Despite protests, Scar had been a kind of alchemist, and the final transmutation of his life carried more scope then any Edward had ever performed, even if it had been done using cruder style and less studied understanding.

Perhaps Scar too had seen the Gate.

Having a theory would make it easier for Edward to forgive Scar for not being Alphonse. Eventually they reached a kind of park, some cultivated grass along the edge of the Rhine. It was very early in the spring, so the grass was still a bit wet and muddy, but there would be no problems so long as Edward continued to stand. Edward stopped far short of the water's edge, and when he stopped, Scar did too.

"How long have you been here?" Edward asked, finally speaking.

Scar looked at him oddly. "Since I died, of course."

Edward paused, then turned to face Scar, wishing that he'd grown more since the last time they'd met. "I meant, time. How long?"

Scar scrunched up his face, looking at the morning sun with a frown. "Well, if you think about it that way… About three years, I suppose."

Under natural light Scar's eyes had a berry-colored tinge, betraying a hint of their former brilliance. "What have you been doing?" Edward reflected on his own three years of frenetic activity, traveling from place to place and subjecting himself to the rigors of a quest, and wondered if that was a very fair question. He opened his mouth to ask something different, but Scar answered before he could get a chance to find something else to say.

"The same as you saw. Praying, mostly."

How could it be possible to exist in this world by just praying? Scar's coat was simply cut but solid, the white shirt and black pants underneath quite clean. His shoes were black and neatly polished. This was not the dress of a raging fanatic. Edward must have telegraphed his confusion with unusual clarity, because Scar nodded and added, "I am a Brother." The upper-case spelling was audible. "In a Christian sect."

"That's okay?" Edward was very surprised.

"You mean with Ishbala?" Scar showed his first faint smile. "I still serve her, of course. My devotions to the Virgin are testament to this." It was so strange to see this man without his marked face. "I believe the Mary exists under Her dominion, so I am content."

There were so many things Edward wanted to know. How had he been able to transmute Alphonse into the Philosopher's Stone? Why did he do it in the first place? A sort of pang hit him as he realized that if he had known that the Fuhrer had been homunculus prior to arriving in Lior, it might have been possible to convince Scar that the man's real enemy was not the military, but the shadowy soulless forces behind the scenes. Scar had been zealous, but not irrational… surely he would have seen the wisdom in this course. If only Edward had known. All those lives could have been spared. Maybe, maybe Scar would have even helped him in his fight against the homunculi.

Alphonse had been right. Going after Scar before settling things with the homunculi had been a reckless course.

"Let me look at you," Edward demanded. Scar dipped his gaze toward Edward, the smile wiped clean away as the Ishibalite seemed to recall who his audience was. Putting his hands on his hips, Edward inventoried the other man's features, comparing what he saw with what he recalled. The eyes were new. The scar was gone. Otherwise, was anything else different? Edward bit his lip and frowned. He couldn't tell. "Maybe I shouldn't call you Scar anymore," he said finally.

Scar touched his forehead and shook his head. "For you, I don't have any other name. That will have to do."

"Hmm." Edward crossed his arms, tapping his good fingers against his metal arm. If Scar had come over into this world with all of his memories intact, why did his body not have the marks from his life back at home?

"It's okay." Scar shrugged off his wool coat and handed it to Edward, who took it gingerly before folding it over his crossed arms. His white shirt had buttons at the wrist, and Scar undid these, rolling up the right sleeve deliberately. When he was done, his look at Edward burned challenge. "See?"

The tattoos were gone. Edward pretended to blink, disguising the fact that he'd already noticed this earlier. Anything to indulge the man.

"This arm itself is a scar," the other man explained.

What did that mean? It was a perfectly virgin arm. Surprise tainted Edward's artless face. It looked almost painfully new, and Edward had a moment of stark envy, quickly suppressed. "How?" he blurted.

"You think I understand alchemy?" Scar asked, his tone flattening. "I have no idea." He reached for his coat, which Edward handed to him. "I don't even know if it's because of alchemy," he said in a less hostile tone, seeming to reconcile something in his own head.

"What do you mean?"

"Well… I don't know. After I died…" Scar looked away. "Did I create the Philosopher's Stone?"

Of course. How could Scar measure his success without being present to see it? "He… Alphonse… lived." Just saying his brother's name out loud took some effort. Thanks seemed both monstrous and inadequate, so Edward took a cue from Scar and looked off in the distance, turning around to take in the skyline of the city without really attending to it.

"I see," Scar said quietly. "That's good."

Was it good? Edward kicked at the grass, cutting up a rivet of brown and green. From a personal perspective, yes, of course it was. But of all of those people Scar had sacrificed, surely some had not deserved it. Not all of them had been rapists and murderers. Except. Except… by excusing those others of culpability for the military's many egregious sins, was it not possible that Edward was trying to find a way to excuse himself? By choosing to lend his power to the military, hadn't Edward put his own selfish goals ahead of any kind of sense of justice? Did he not deserve to die along with the others, paying both for his privilege, and his pride?

Izumi had forbidden him from becoming a dog of the military, had warned him of the transgression in giving validity to any sort of oppressive regime. The militia that Scar killed had been deployed with the expressed intention of doing in Lior exactly that which had been done in Ishibal. If they had not entered the city, the complete Philosopher's Stone could never have been triggered. If Scar hadn't arranged for the evacuation of the citizens of Lior, wasn't it entirely possible that Edward would have joined the older man in halting the military's actions? Or would he have heeded the call to stand by, watching as even more innocents died in a conflict that had been started in his own name?

Standing by. Halting… Killing. Semantics.

"She said…" Scar began, and then cut himself off abruptly.

Edward dug his boot more viciously into the grass. He said nothing.

"She said _you _could do it. Turn him into something different." A guarded pause. "It was the best I could do."

The best he could do? It was more then Edward had ever been able to do. Unless… unless his last transmutation, the one returning Alphonse to earth, had been successful. Somehow Scar had found the insight to be able to create the Philosopher's Stone without having it present in his own body. An impressive feat, although deeply exasperating. "How?"

"My arm… my brother's arm…"

Suddenly the story clicked, and Edward understood. Scar had not suddenly learned the last step of alchemy. No. He must have given his arm, whole, to Alphonse. The man had always acted entirely out of instinct anyway, and that would never be enough to give him the knowledge to be able to do an actual transmutation. The Philosopher's Stone had been the one thing, the only thing, that Scar had been able to create, and he could do that only because the driving force in that creation had been the second step of alchemy: destruction. Edward shook a little, digesting this. It was strange to think that both he and this man, Scar, had given an arm to his brother. "Lust told you that?"

Perhaps the most mundane detail of all, Lust helping Scar. "Yes."

In the late morning light the city looked bright, reflecting the truest colors that the sun was capable of evoking. The density of people near the water was quite low, but further on in there was a heartbreaking hum of activity, the small noises that people always made as they lived their lives. Despite his best efforts, Edward had never felt like he'd been more then an observer in cities like this. "What was it like?" Edward asked quietly.

"Does it matter?" Scar's voice was particularly distant, although faintly laced with savageness. "It hurt, I guess."

What does one say to that? How much did Edward really know about Scar, anyway? This was a man he'd met many times, and although he knew the exact outline of the man's life, how much did he really understand of his motives? 'It hurt.' 'That's good.' 'I _guess_. ' Did the man intend to live out his life in utter monosyllabic stoicism? Edward shook his head in frustration. No, he knew that was an unfair thought the moment it ascended into consciousness. Just because he had never been privileged to observe Scar in a more emotional state didn't mean the man never had any deep thoughts, nor never any heavy words. In fact, the clipped words and odd bursts of feeling from Scar fell into a familiar cadence of restraint that felt all too familiar to Edward. "I see," the small and former alchemist responded with a sigh. He did see.

Scar stepped back a bit so that he could catch Edward's backwards-facing glance. Surprisingly, his expression mirrored some of Edward's frustrations. "'What it was like' is not something that matters," he explained. "That's all I meant."

"Yeah?" Edward looked up slowly. "But it did hurt, right?"

"What I meant… Is your brother… is Alphonse… did he make it?" There was concern in Scar's normally guarded face. "That's what I had hoped for. The rest is… probably… irrelevant."

More then his own pain, this was what really mattered? Edward drew in a deep breath. He hadn't quite realized just how much this Ishibalite had come to care for his brother, and seeing it now hit him like a blow. How had Edward come to deserve such a brother, one who could bring even a holy murderer to pity? Tears unbidden came to his eyes, and angrily Edward scrubbed them away. "Yes," he pitched harshly. "After what you did, yes."

"Ah." Scar put on his coat and then slid an unfashionable, outdated pocket watch out of his pants. Whatever he saw there caused him to nod, and he gestured towards the city. "I have time," he said. Edward continued to shake quietly, furious at himself. Scar reached out and touched Edward on the top of his head with his right hand. "Have lunch with me, Fullmetal Alchemist." His touch was almost familial. "I know a place."

"Maybe." Edward squeezed his eyes shut. He would compose himself, or die trying. "Wait, never mind. Yes. Let's." He agreed through gritted teeth and suppressed tears. Scar's hand covered his entire head, and Edward remembered the last time the man had touched him like this, offering benediction through the gift of death. This was different. The hand that touched him now was more hesitant, less heavy as it pressed him down against the earth. Edward felt oddly comforted, even soothed. After a moment he reached up to swat Scar's arm away, feeling his cheeks go warm. "And don't call me that."

Opening his eyes, he looked to see again that shadow of a smile, and this time the smile was for him. "As you wish, _der Herr_ Alchemist."


	2. Chapter 2

ii.

An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered; an adventure is an inconvenience rightly considered.  
G.K. Chesterton

"Why is sauerbraten so damn good?"

"I don't know, but it's evident you favour it." Scar eyed the piles of emptied plates next to Edward's beer, speaking now in proper German. The older man took only tea.

"You should try some!" Edward was not drunk, not even near, but he had topped off at least one mug. He waved a forkful of marinated beef in Scar's general direction. "I promise you, the taste is revolutionary."

"I told you. I don't eat meat." This was said in the patient but almost-had-it tones of a seasoned vegetarian.

"Yes. But I scorn your reasons." Edward shrugged, and popped the sweet and spicy bite into his mouth. "No merciful god would ever forbid something so delicious."

"So you say."

"SO DAMN GOOD!" Edward was getting a little loud. Scar shook his head and kicked Edward under the table as some of the other patrons looked their way curiously.

They had talked for quite a long time, over an hour. It was an oddly patched together series of revelations, as Edward did the best he could to bring Scar up to date on all the things that had happened after he had, as he put it, died. Edward wanted to ask how the man could think of himself as dead when he obviously was living some kind of life right here, but after a few philosophical starts he discovered the topic was mysteriously verboten.

Edward kept some facts back, of course. He did not reveal that Sloth had been his dead mother, nor that Envy had been some kind of half-brother. There was almost no talk about the things Edward found most important to who he was, Winry and the dead officer Hughes and his father, Hohenheim, being just a few of those tetchy topics. The one thing he could not keep in check was how much he missed his brother, and ultimately the conversation had looped around to Alphonse many, many times. To this Scar had no objection, and in fact seemed to egg Edward on, wanting to hear about all sorts of trivial Alphonse factoids as if they confirmed some pet theory of his. Edward tried, once, to figure out what had made Scar so protective towards his brother, asking what it had been that caused Scar that one time to tell Alphonse that he was in fact human. Scar had dropped into a glare so icy and menacing that Edward decided it, too, was a topic best avoided.

Maybe it had something to do with the fraternity of little brothers, everywhere. In any case, Edward decided to ignore it.

At some point he discovered that Scar had become a Jesuit and was in the novice stage of formation, approximately a year before taking his vows. Very weird and striking that Scar had joined one of the most urbane and erudite of religious orders... Edward never would have guessed that such a life held any attractions for a man of Scar's uncompromisingly pagan approach to the rituals of faith.

Some things were just a lot easier to handle after a bit of alcohol. Edward found himself able to accept Scar's presence here in this world and even hazarded a few positive feelings about the whole thing. Scar seemed to be attached to his new-found contemplative life and would not be any kind of bar to any of Edward's goals. He didn't even seem that curious. When Edward made up a little story about how he needed to stay in Köln in order to study Hegel and Max Planck, Scar didn't even seem to blink at the preposterousness of connecting those two men in any sort of serious investigation, let along wonder why Edward hadn't taken these queries to Berlin. Scar just did not seem to care.

Without rivalry, it would be... nice... to have someone familiar to talk to. Edward hadn't realized how much he'd come to resent eating alone.

One of the restaurant maids slipped the cheque to Scar after getting some kind of signal from him that the meal was over (never mind that Edward had not yet finished his seventh plate of god-defying deliciousness). This caused Edward to arch his very blonde eyebrows in presumptive outrage. He was almost twenty-one now. How did the entire female populace of Germany get off presuming that Scar would be the one to pay? Did he look like that much of a pea-sized midget in comparison? Well, probably, but still. It was an outrage. As soon as the girl stepped away Edward swiped the cheque out from Scar's fingers, only barely suppressing a pint-sized growl.

"I think I can afford tea," he said, attempting a dry tone that probably could fool no one.

Scar gave him the oddest look, but did not make any move to retrieve the bill. "You intend to supplant my hospitality with your own?"

"Well... yes." Edward made a face. "I mean, no. That's completely stupid. Just because you invited me doesn't mean you should have to pay for my banquet." He reached forward to tap Scar's glass with then tines of his fork so that it made a satisfying little tinkling noise. "Also, you didn't eat anything. I know what fair is."

"And I know what fair isn't," Scar responded, reaching forward to take the bill and moving so quickly that Edward didn't have any chance to respond. "There's a right way and a wrong way to do these kinds of things." Scar's glance was complicated, weighty. "Trust me. If I expected you to pay, I wouldn't have insulted you by eating nothing."

Edward looked at his plates, evidence of his gluttony causing him to blush scarlet. "I don't want you to have to pay for all this," he muttered. "Not _everything_. It's... embarrassing."

"I enjoyed watching you eat," Scar said, with no change in his expression, except perhaps in becoming even more unreadable. "Very artistic."

"You can do that for free," Edward said, scrunching up his shoulders and huddling at his seat. "Ack. Now I'm going to feel bad."

"Do you always reserve your hesitation for when it becomes clear that the cost is not just shared by you?" Scar looked away, this time wearing a look of judgmental disdain. "If it is your nature to consume food so recklessly, don't apologize for it. But don't pretend that spending your own money somehow puts the weight of the consumption only on you. There is always a cost for others... even if you don't see it."

Edward stiffened. Not only was it surreal for him to be schooled in the core principle of alchemy by an avowed hater of the practice, it was extremely unexpected. He stared at Scar, taking deliberate large breaths through his nostrils as he tried to figure out how to answer without lashing out. His mind worked quickly and he loosened his jaw only when he felt that the result of his many mental calculations was correct. "If there is a wrong way, there's also a right way," Edward said at last, guardedly. "But _a_ right way is not necessarily _the_ right way." He took another breath. "I never thought you really intended to pay for all that. Honestly."

Scar's expression softened. "I want to."

"You can if you want." Edward nodded, at first with hesitation, but then decisively. "And... thanks."

. + .

As soon as lunch was over Scar left to return to his monastery, and Edward started in on his previously intended task: finding a place to stay. He didn't intend to be picky, but experience had taught him to weigh his options before making a choice. The sun hung heavily in the western sky; despite his residual tipsiness, Edward hunkered down for a long, grueling afternoon of apartment hunting.

The nice thing was that the city was so fresh, vivid even, the smell of spring clear on the air and the gorgeousness of the weather causing even the grimmest passer-by to seem a bit relaxed. The streets were narrow and cobbled, and people with bicycles passed the pedestrians in an orderly, courteous fashion. Edward splashed some water on the back of his neck from one of the fountains he passed by. It seemed to Edward that every person either had cornsilk or sun-kissed warm brown hair, coloring that was so like his own and his brother's that sometimes Edward startled, thinking he saw someone else that he knew from back home. It was all an illusion, of course. Just because he had met Scar didn't mean that there was any power in coincidence, and Edward didn't really anticipate any more unexpected meetings.

The hours passed quickly but almost from the start Edward's feet were dragging. Everything was so similar. The prices quoted, the situations... nothing distinctively outrageous, but nothing particularly amazing stuck out with him. Eventually he turned down a street towards the last name mentioned on his list, and Edward had made up his mind that unless it was totally horrible or expensive, he would take it.

The first thing Edward noticed were the potted flowers on the porch, red and yellow tulips lining the steps. It was a three story building, and on the second floor patio Edward spied a kitten, which looked down at him impassively before disappearing off on an adventure. Edward knocked on the front door, smiling. This was not a bad place.

The landlady ushered him in, a pretty older woman in her forties with pink cheeks and blazing white streaks mixed in with her brightly blonde hair, braided in the back with a red ribbon. Ilse. She turned out to be something of a character, and after agreeing on arrangements that would allow Edward to stay for as long as he felt he needed, she treated him to tea and an intricate discussion of her various physical ills, including dyspepsia and recurrent bouts of the flu as well as new problems such as swollen ankles and periodic warm flushes that came for no reason. Following this she embarked on a lively discussion of her various travails in trying to find homes for all of the new kittens her cat, Fritzi, had recently given birth to. After talking to Scar Edward wasn't as annoyed with this oversharing as he might have been, but as soon as it was humanely possible he excused himself to check out the flat he would be renting.

Thank goodness for the fact that his place on the third floor had its own door and stairway on the side of the home. Edward climbed up the white-painted wood stairs and let himself in. It was airy and cheerful, decorated quite simply in light greens and yellows. A grey cat lounged on his pillow. Edward walked around and looked into everything carefully. No dust or grime to be seen anywhere. His landlady might be a pain, but she certainly could clean. After unpacking, Edward collapsed onto what was to be his new bed, causing the cat to move over with a displeased meow. He felt totally spent.

Where would he find an ally? Edward rested the back of his left forearm on his forehead, covering his eyes and sighing. Who could he find to help him get what he needed?

. + .

The keys to infiltration, in Edward's opinion, were subterfuge and encampment. In this case that meant pretending to be Catholic and visiting the cathedral daily. The Catholic church had only recently been allowed to re-open the doors of its churches, as a part of the settlement following the last war. This made the Lutherans nervous, even so, and being Catholic still happened to be something of a rebellious and dangerous thing to do. Edward ended up acquiring a rosary but he kept it carefully hidden in his pocket when he was walking around town.

Pretending to pray in church for hours on end was agonizing, but Edward endured, and soon got himself pegged as a regular by a few of the priests and religious lay people who visited the cathedral on a daily basis. Taking a cue from his experience with Scar, Edward decided to act as though he had an interest in taking up a priestly vocation (although he made sure to lard up his fake desire with enough doubts and hesitations to make credible his double life as a scientist). Unfortunately, though, although many people began smiling his way, few stopped to chat. Edward's carefully constructed lie went completely unused.

It was a lonely way to work.

For many days Edward did not see Scar again. This was not surprising; Scar had to keep to a schedule whereas Edward did not, and had taken on responsibilities which probably took up most of his days. It wasn't until two weeks later, in fact, when Edward broke down and decided to go to an actual Sunday mass (instead of the lower-key weekday masses that he favoured) that he next saw the former terrorist.

Sitting in a corner pew next to a large marble column near the back of the massive church, Edward wondered what possible good any of the predominantly German congregation got out of the entirely Latin mass. For most of them it was not a matter of saying words but of making the right noises, kneeling or standing on cue, and listening to chants which could have no relevance to their day-to-day lives.

The only things that made sense were the organ concertos that opened and closed mass; these, Edward loved.

Twitchy over the fruitlessness of his search to date, Edward pretended to watch the priest attentively but on the inside he was fuming. Every day that passed was one more day not knowing what had happened to Alphonse. Every day that passed was one more failure. It was as if he'd traveled across a vast unknown ocean in search of foreign gold, and on finding land had come to discover that he still had half of the world left to traverse. Reaching his destination would be meaningless if Edward could not find a way to unearth the secrets he needed to know. In bored frustration Edward scanned the faces of the people in the side pews, and it was then that he saw Scar.

The Ishibalite stood out among his group; although he sat with Jesuits and nuns and other religious persons under vows, he did not look like any of them. Scar was taller and his skin was much darker; from far away the difference in coloring was striking.

Actually seeing Scar again was like some kind of jolt to his limbic system, upsetting Edward's carefully controlled sense of reality. Considering the many marathon hours he was clocking at church (and considering Scar's inexorable devotion to practices of faith), perhaps it was inevitable that Edward would see Scar again, even in this relatively large city. But even an anticipated reunion could come as a surprise when it was unlooked-for. Scar was proof, solid proof, that Edward's own exile was real.

Edward did not take communion; the thought of participating in that particular ritual sickened him, particularly when he considered what it represented in terms of sacrifice. Eating the transmuted flesh of an incarnate god might appeal to some, but for someone who knew that transmutation could be real, the thought could only offer nausea. Sniffing, Edward quietly scorned the believers who filed forward. If they really believed in the mystery that they were celebrating, how could they accept it with such equanimity? Where was the transgressive fear? Such holiness seemed cheap. Edward noticed with some interest that Scar did not take communion either, and wondered why that was. Perhaps it was because he refused to take meat; of all of them, Scar would be one to believe in such a mystery wholesale.

Mass ended in routine solemnity, and as the high priest forsook his dais the parishioners began to mingle and disperse. Standing up quickly. Edward beelined Scar, tracking the other man as he began to walk with one of the priests towards the exit. He had to catch the man now, or it could be weeks until he saw him again. For right now Scar was his only lead, his only in. He'd have to see if Scar could introduce him to the right kind of person, but without letting Scar in on his plans (which the other man would probably find blasphemous). Catching up from behind, Scar seemed to be in pleasantly casual conversation with his companion, who appeared to be one of the Jesuit priests and probably was one of his superiors. Taking a deep breath, Edward reached out with his left hand and tugged on Scar's coat sleeve from behind.

"I'm sorry to bother you, um... Brother..." Edward trailed off, wishing he'd asked Scar what name he was going by in this world. Scar and the man with him both turned to look down at him... Scar favoring him with raised eyebrows and a scowl.

"You know this boy?" asked Scar's companion, the priest. The look on his face, at least, was kindly, as he queried Scar while examining Edward minutely.

"Slightly," Scar answered with a touch of sarcasm in his voice. "Father Ernesto, this is Edward Elric. An alch... a chemist."

Edward ignored Scar for the moment, examining the priest with interest. Ernesto? That was an Italian name. "Buon giorno," Edward said with a nod and a slight smile. He would make a stunning impression, or die trying.

"Parlate italiano?" The priest gave Scar a pleased grin, and then reached out to shake hands with Edward.

Edward tapped his metal arm with his left hand, illustrating that it was fake so that the priest would not perceive the insult when the handshake was not returned. "Poco, poco," he answered with a laugh. "I'm sorry, but my German is much better." Edward risked giving Scar a wicked grin of triumph, which the other man received with a very satisfying look of surprise.

The priest, Father Ernesto, gently took Edward's false hand and squeezed it between his own. "No matter. It is a pleasure to meet you, son." The look that Father Ernesto gave Scar was chiding. "I did not know that you knew any scientists. You should have told me. How are you acquainted?"

Scar pressed his lips together tightly, and Edward could not tell if the other man was amused, or furious. "He's... a family friend. Recently arrived in town, I believe." Scar looked down at Edward and evaluated him sternly. "Isn't that so?"

"Of course," Edward said earnestly. "I'm here on break from my studies."

"Chemist, eh?" The priest rubbed his chin thoughtfully, apparently oblivious to the sub-res tensions between Edward and Brother Scar. "Are you perhaps familiar with the recent work of Schrödinger?"

Oooh, perfect. Edward thanked his own non-gods for brainy Jesuits. Perhaps here was his in. "On Bohr... the wave equation?"

"Yes, that." The priest rubbed his hands together gleefully. "What did you think of it?"

"I want to see what Heisenberg says," Edward shrugged. "But I like it. It makes sense, it's elegant."

Scar followed this exchange by shifting his eyes from the priest to Edward, crossing his arms. Just as it appeared that Father Ernesto was going to ask Edward technical details about the paper, Scar broke in. "Can I help you with something, Edward Elric?"

Edward nodded, stifling regret. He wanted to continue with this discussion, but it was not worth alienating his one solid connection for the sake of cultivating a more tenuous one. "Father, can I borrow him for a bit? There's something I'd like to discuss in private, if you don't mind."

The priest nodded. "Of course, of course." He patted Scar on the shoulder, and Edward wondered whether it was cruel for him to enjoy the fact that the Ishibalite flinched under the familiar touch. Surely it was a bit petty. "I'll see you back at the monastery," he said with the air of one granting a favour. "Take your time. But, please don't forget to bring this boy by sometime." Father Ernesto smiled at Edward, a benign and inviting smile. "Intelligence is a gift from god, child. It seems you've been specially blessed. Treasure it."

"Um... thank you, Father," Edward murmured, suppressing an impulse to grit his teeth. "I'll make sure to visit while in town, if... my friend here doesn't mind." Scar was staring at him as if he were a creation surreal.

"Of course he doesn't mind," Father Ernesto waved off the concern airily, and then turned to leave with a little bow of his head. "Until we meet again, than."

Edward waved cheerfully as the other man left, and then turned to give Scar a matter-of-fact look, dropping the pretense of easy affability. "Where can we talk?" The church was taking a while to clear out, and right now it was possible that anything he'd say could be overheard.

"You're unreal," Scar shook his head in disbelief.

"Yeah, I know," Edward said, a bit softly, suddenly feeling sorry for disturbing Scar's routine. Who knew but that it was the only thing keeping the man from going off on self-righteous homicidal rages? Not for the first time Edward wished that he understood Scar a bit better... and not just because he could possibly find the man useful. What made this strange person tick? What was Scar's internal logic? Edward could only begin to guess.

After a moment of glaring at Edward, Scar's gaze went upwards. "Would you like to see the city from high?"

"You mean from the top of the cathedral?" Edward looked up and up, a glance that could not do anything but soar. "That's possible?"

"Yes. But there are many stairs. Are you up for a climb?"

Edward nodded absently, distracted. He didn't know that someone at Scar's level had that kind of access. After a moment Scar tugged on his automail, pulling at the forearm.

"Today?"

Tearing his gaze away from the shadows and mote-filled bars of colored light, Edward smiled at Scar. "Okay. Today."

. + .

Exactly as advertised, the climb was long and brutal. At first Edward took the stairs two at a time, practically running, but long before they reached the top he was proceeding at a virtual crawl, feeling drained of life and energy. Without Alphonse around to prod him on, Edward had lost touch with some of his more athletic skills. It did not help that Scar took the stairs effortlessly, from first to last with an even breathing pattern and unchanging pace that Edward could only envy.

The stairs opened out onto a small terrace on top of the cathedral, a sunny place shielded from high winds by the intricate buttresses framing the roof. Rarely had Edward been privileged to see any city from this kind of vantage point, so as soon as he stepped out into the light he gasped and sighed with pleasure. Why couldn't those dreary Catholics hold mass up here? Edward snorted to himself. That would make too much damn sense. As god's finest creation, shouldn't man glorify himself?

Apparently not. Edward entertained a brief fantasy about what kind of religious rituals that he'd mandate if he were in charge of faith practices for a whole swath of people, sitting down to catch his breath. There would be a lot more organ music and a lot less prattling on about the blood of lambs, that was for damn sure.

"So," Scar began, sitting down against the stone right next to Edward. "You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes," Edward answered simply.

"Why?"

Edward gave Scar a probing look. Obviously the man was not going to let him get away with the pretense that he wanted to chat just because they came from the same world. That was not the kind of person Edward was, and maybe Scar knew it. "I want to know more about you," Edward said, deciding to state the truth although neglecting to offer his reasons.

"You know everything that is important already," Scar answered, not returning the look as he looked out over the far-away roofs of the city.

"I do?" Edward laughed a little, trying not to sound too cynical as it was not befitting his young age. "I don't know you at all."

"I find it difficult to believe that you'd care about anything like that," Scar said with the kind of dry cynicism that was _exactly_ befitting his age. "What do you want?"

Edward closed his eyes and rubbed his temples roughly with his thumbs, real and artificial alike. He wasn't willing to tell Scar about his plan to break into the shrine, not yet and possibly not ever. "I can't tell you," Edward answered, his non-answer being the sort of honesty that Scar deserved, even if it was a sort of unpleasant truth. "Can you accept that?"

"Mystery, eh?" Scar turned to look at Edward then, and actually smiled. "For now, yes."

"You're so strange," Edward said, returning the smile with exhausted appreciation. "I can't think of anyone else who'd let me get away with that kind of answer."

Scar shrugged. "We're not family. We're not friends. We're not even colleagues. I don't expect you to give me the considerations you would give those."

Edward recoiled a little, as if stung. It was true, and Edward didn't necessarily want things to be any different, but still... saying things so baldly was brutal. He'd asked for it, though. There would be no possibility of cultivating a real acquaintance by asking Scar to open up while refusing to give anything of his self. "Mm... okay." Edward stretched out his legs, considering this situation to be a sort of social puzzle that required tactful genius. Normally this was not the former alchemist's forte, but he would try. "So?"

"Hmm. Well, you know about my brother. You know about his arm. You know how I died. What more is there?"

"Was it all for revenge?"

Scar looked at Edward for a long silent moment, and Edward waited patiently as his intentions were weighed, returning Scar's gaze steadily. He would not back down; it was a fundamental question. "I don't believe in revenge," Scar said at last.

"I can't believe you killed that many people out of sense of pique," Edward replied quietly, a little shocked that Scar could say that with a straight face. "But I guess I just don't get how you could justify what you did, if it wasn't for revenge."

"There are many things that people with your kind of privileges are incapable of understanding," Scar answered, just as quietly, but with a faintly deadly and dangerous air. Obviously Edward was pressing a little hard.

"Privileges?" Edward barked out with a choking laugh, stung a bit in turn. How dare he? "I'm a cripple, an exile, and completely alone. I don't think I see any 'privileges.'"

Scar reached forward and grabbed Edward's automail leg by the knee, twisting to glare at Edward with a kind of angry resentment. "A cripple with functional limbs that make you stronger then you might otherwise be. An exile with a brother who loves you and who is probably working at this moment on ways to return you to life. A person alone, but with the distant backing of a powerful military and a prosperous... and living... people. Yes, your life is completely bereft of advantages." Scar's sneer was punishing and full of repressed rage. "You know about what happened in Ishibal, and Lior. And yet you think that my actions are without justification? I think you don't understand as much as you think you do." Scar took a deep breath and shook himself, backing off as he released his hold on Edward's body. "All life is precious, not just the lives that are precious to you."

"If you think that, how could you kill?" Edward bit off a despairing sigh. It just didn't make sense. "What you did didn't bring back one life. Not one."

"Of course not. But I hoped to save some." Scar knocked his own back against the wall, slumping back suddenly. "That's not revenge." Scar touched his forehead, the place where his skin used to wear a cross of white. "You alchemists do not know the kind of power you have."

"What do you mean?"

"You obsess over the past, and therefore it holds irresistible power over you. But the past is not as important as what is to come." Scar closed his eyes. "You have... had... the power to create a better future. But instead you live only through your regrets."

"I could say the same for you." Edward ran a finger through the hair tied at the back of his neck. "Are you a hypocrite?" Well, there went any pretense of tact. But once he started in like this, Edward found it difficult to repress himself. Edward valued the truth too much, and when he fought about matters of truth he always aimed to win.

"Yes," Scar whispered, and when Edward turned to look at the other man he was surprised to see pain lining his face as he closed his eyes tightly.

Oh. Edward felt his momentum skid to a thunderous halt. How did you argue with someone who refused to pretend that he was perfect? It was difficult to maintain contempt against that kind of honesty.

"Edward Elric... were you responsible for creating a homunculus, like my brother?"

Edward sat up with electrifying quickness. He guessed that the clues were obvious, and obviously Scar had gained the right to ask such a personal question because of the kind of probing that Edward was subjecting him to, but still. That was the last thing he expected to hear, especially as a question from this man. Far from wondering how Scar knew, Edward instead wondered where the man was going with this. "Yes," he whispered.

"Who was it?"

"My mother."

"Ah." Scar turned to face Edward, arranging himself in a cross-legged stance with his hands resting open in his lap. "You and Alphonse did that?"

"...Yes."

"You must have loved her very much, then," Scar said with a solemn nod. "I'm very sorry." The other man took a deep breath and bent his legs upward so that he could lean forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "Sometimes I underestimate the past, because I try so hard to forget my own. But I know that it affects everyone." In Scar's blood-brown eyes there was a certain indefinable sadness. "There is no justification for what I did," he whispered. "None. So don't try to find any. Just know that... I did what I felt that I had to do. I am willing to pay the price."

Edward was reminded of the first time that he'd ever seen the ocean. Despite dreaming of it his whole life, it had looked nothing like what he expected it to be. It was more vast and more terrible, more lonely and perfect, churning with fractal chaos. This glimpse of Scar's motives was a little like that... illuminating nothing, except that now he knew that he was looking truth in the face instead of merely imagining it from his own limited perspective. "What was your mother like?" Edward asked with a different kind of curiosity, his voice hushed with his own reverent sorrows.

"I don't know." Scar looked down at the ground, and for the first time ever Edward saw clear shame taint the other man's face. "She died before I was born."

Edward paled. "Before?"

"Yes. She never knew me. And I never knew her. My brother raised me."

Edward fell silent. He was afraid to ask after a father. In fact, he didn't need to... the implied answer was clear enough. But to be born of a mother already dead? The only kind of children like that had to be cut from their mother's womb before they died themselves. It was horrifying to contemplate. Unlike Edward, Scar was truly and fatally motherless. Perhaps that explained much.

"My mother would have liked you, I think," Edward said softly, after gathering his thoughts together into some kind of coherence. "She died before I was old enough to know her as a person, but I think you are the kind of person she would have enjoyed talking to." And it was true. In Scar's various torments and tangled principles there was a very interesting individual, someone not unlike... well, not unlike his own damned father.

"Hmm," Scar said, evaluating Edward with an expression he'd never seen before, one of actual respect and even gratitude, the shame fading slowly. "You are like your brother. That sounds like something he would say."

Edward felt a pang of loneliness squeeze his heart. It was true, but he wouldn't have known it unless Scar had pointed it out. That was exactly the sort of thing Alphonse would say, kind and appropriate and not at all in Edward's native style. Memories unbidden flooded his mind, and Edward closed his eyes to cling to them, knowing that they would pass quickly. "I miss him," Edward confessed. "I miss him so much."

"I will pray to Ishibala for him," Scar said quietly. "I will pray for him daily, if you want." His voice sounded a bit helpless, with a return of that ephemeral undercurrent of shame.

"That's a lot of praying," Edward said with a shaky smile, struggling to find his composure. "I don't believe in prayer, though."

"I know you don't," Scar said. "But I can do this for you anyway. Sometimes it... helps. I imagine that it helps, anyway."

Who would it help? Alphonse? Edward found that unlikely, so grossly unlikely that he was about to refute it with reflexive rejection, when he remembered that Scar was a motherless child and looked at him more closely. Scar was not looking through him but at him, and it occurred to him that the person Scar wanted to help was... well, him. "Who prays for you?" Edward asked, adopting a gentleness that was not false even if it was unfamiliar.

"There is no one left who can," Scar answered while looking off into the distance.

Suddenly Edward felt and understood his privilege, and his heart ached in unaccustomed sympathy. Scar was a walking wound, open and bleeding, and even with a restored body he was still without any of the comforts accorded to most of humanity. It must have been a terribly lonely way to live. "I think there is more to vengeance then mere hatred," Edward said in his most thoughtful voice, trying to give Scar the best and straightest words within his power, even though it meant reaching into unexamined philosophical depths that he didn't like to probe too closely. "Sometimes I think revenge is what happens when we lose all hope." Edward coughed a little. Maybe that was saying too much. "That's... that's what creates the Philosopher's Stone, I think. Even more then the lives that comprise it."

"Hopelessness?"

"Yes. Hopelessness."

"You are probably right, Edward Elric." Scar looked chastened. "Hopelessness... despair... is a weakness. One which I am afraid to say afflicts me often." Scar made his right hand into a fist, and looked down at it somberly. "I do not think I was wrong to save your brother," Scar said. "But I know it was wrong for me to kill all those men to do it. It would have been better if I had stayed with just killing State Alchemists."

Edward found himself nodding, even though he knew that he was agreeing to his own death sentence in some kind of weird cosmic way. "If you had killed me before I went to Lior the first time, many lives would have been saved," Edward said. From a non-selfish perspective, this was the undeniable truth.

"And if I killed you now?" Scar said, looking up at Edward suddenly. "How many lives would be spared then?"

What a shockingly direct question. "None. I hope."

"See? That is the problem with what I did. I want to believe that taking the lives of people in the military would save lives, but... I don't know. I will never know what those people would have done, if left to live their lives without my interference." Scar stood up. "And now I will never know."

No, he wouldn't. Edward stood up in turn, looking out over the city on Sabbath. "Let's be friends." He held out his automail arm, not feeling the need to hide from this man who he really was.

"Friends?" Scar looked at the hand offered, appearing confused. "Why?"

"Because I can't pray for you." Edward reached forward and gripped Scar's hand before the other man could withdraw. "That's why."

Author's note: please be aware that this story has been completed a while ago; I will not be able to publish the entire thing hrtr because soon it gets into territory above the M rating system. Fortunately, if you're interested in reading the entire thing, you can go to Livejournal and look up Lukassa (a link to the fic has also been provided on my profile page here but of course I'm not allowed to place the link directly in the story).


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